


The Boy in Blue

by frostian



Series: Road to Ithaca [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Case Fic, Child Death, Gen, M/M, One Shot, Pre-Slash, Season 02, halloween fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-30
Updated: 2014-10-30
Packaged: 2018-02-23 05:02:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,734
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2535134
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/frostian/pseuds/frostian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“How do you feel about haunted mansions?” Sherlock asked as he put away the last container of his slides into the freezer.</p><p>As a favor for Mycroft, Sherlock takes what is suppose to be a simple case: recover a stolen Aston Martin for an American, Dr. Osbourne, who lives near Worthing. The case turns out to be anything but simple as a haunting, violent family histories, and resentful townsfolk complicate the truth.</p><p>Then, there is the curious fact that the dogs did not bark during the night of the theft.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Boy in Blue

“How do you feel about haunted mansions?” Sherlock asked as he put away the last container of his slides into the freezer.

John calmly finished sipping his tea before answering, “Depends. Are the ghosts the polite kind or the bloodthirsty monsters that Americans seem to adore?”

Sherlock’s smile was slight but genuine. “The kind that steals cars.”

John dropped the newspapers onto his lap, completely abandoning any hope of a normal Saturday morning. “Cars?”

“A 1966 Aston Martin DB5 appropriately named Silver Blaze.” Sherlock rotated his laptop and showed the photo. “As you can see it is …”

“Bloody gorgeous!” John crowed. “Who would dare to steal such a masterpiece?!”

Sherlock blinked rapidly at John’s enthusiastic response. “That is the question. Which is why the owner requests our presence. That and the ghost, of course.”

“What about the ghost?”

Sherlock snorted as he watched John grapple his attention away from the photo of the car. “An American doctor turned entrepreneur has purchased a derelict manor quaintly named Temple Lake in Ashurst, few miles north of Worthing. The estate holds sizable land surrounding the main house, along with two ponds. One of the ponds must have been larger at some point to inspire the ‘Lake’ part of the name.”

“Hold on, an American? At Worthing?”

“Indeed, a Doctor Evelyn Osbourne. From what I’ve been able to glean, she is from a wealthy family. And her work in the last decade has recently doubled the family fortune to an obscene amount.”

“So, she ups herself and moves to Worthing?” John noted, confusion plain by the pinch of his brows. 

“You can question her about her choice of residence when we visit Temple Lake.”

“Want me to pack for two days or three?”

“Considering the amount of drooling you’ve done over the missing car, I think three. If only to give you a chance to drive the blasted thing when we recover it.”

John’s smile was simultaneously devilish and innocent. “Oh, yes!”

Sherlock's amusement grew as he heard John thump about his room, preparing to once again defy physics by stuffing three days worth of clothes, toiletries, and miscellany in a duffel bag that could barely contain a day’s worth.

And that was before John started packing food for the train ride. Which all went into a brown paper bag and jammed into the front pocket of the same bloody bag.

Sherlock grimaced as he recollected the last repast John had packed. His friend meant well and his frugal ways were not to be mocked unless Sherlock wished to hear John drone on and on about financial responsibilities. However, after three trips consisting of half-smashed sammies and crisps ground down to powder, Sherlock did not want John to prepare a ‘little something for the trip’.

So, he called Speedy’s and asked them to prep takeaway lunchboxes for two. He’d deal with John’s irritated huffs later. And Sherlock suspected once John took one look at his lunch his temper would quickly subside.

* * *

Since they were in first class, Sherlock and John were able to get a table all to themselves in the sparsely populated compartment. The ride was uneventful, and as soon as they had drinks at hand, John decided they should eat. Sherlock didn’t argue and picked on his lunch.

John finished his sandwich with relish and slowly sipped his tea. “So, you already made the train reservations before asking me?”

Sherlock gave a little shrug. He had expected John to catch on earlier and planned to whine until John forgave him. “Mycroft did.”

John sat up straight. “Mycroft? We’re doing this for him?”

Sherlock jerked a nod while a note of displeasure scrolled across his expressive face. 

“Why?”

“As much as it irritates me, Mycroft does have his uses. And this case was interesting, even on paper.”

“A haunted house?” John teased over the takeaway cup.

Sherlock snorted. “The manor is one of those rare ones where the original façade was not sacrificed for the war efforts, or remodeled to oblivion by later generations. And yet, for reasons unknown, Temple Lake is not listed in the National Trust.”

“Is that so strange? There must be hundreds of rickety old mansions that didn't make the list.”

“Ahhh, but this one witnessed two horrific deaths within its marbled halls.”

“So, an American ghost then.”

Sherlock steepled his hands under his chin. “Perhaps Dr. Osbourne brought it with her.”

“Along with the car?” John asked with a cheeky smile.

Sherlock opted to watch the scenery fly by and let John have the last word. There were times when their verbal ballet felt close to flirting, and the idea always left Sherlock feeling slightly off-kilter. 

On the other hand, John seemed very comfortable with their friendly repartees. Something that made Sherlock wonder what John knew that he, one of the most observant men in all of Great Britain, had missed.

* * *

The driver waiting for them looked barely out of his teens with his freckled face and riotous head of curly red hair.

With a cheerful if heavily accented voice, the young man introduced himself:

“Name’s Michael Hunter. I’m the go-to bloke for Dr. Osbourne on the weekends. My mum is the chief gardener, and mind your step with her! She’s got a short fuse and liable to take a swipe at you with the rake if you step a foot out of line.”

With that colourful announcement, Michael herded them to a black Land Rover. Two well-groomed mutts were in the back, tongues wagging and tails wildly waving side to side.

“This is Abbott and Costello,” Michael introduced them to the dogs. “Dr. Osbourne found them in Temple Lake and decided to keep them when nobody claimed the beasts. She’s not fond of dogs but her husband loves them. They’re usually outside during daytime, wondering about. Anyway, they’re friendly enough so you shouldn't have to worry about them. Just don’t feed them table scraps or treats. They have a tendency to overeat and then throw up on the most expensive furniture in the room.”

The drive would have been an enjoyable one but Michael’s driving had both men holding on for dear life. Mercifully, it wasn’t long before the daredevil made a heart stopping right turn and dramatically slowed down.

When Temple Lake came into view, John gave a small gasp of surprise. 

The manor stood on a gentle hill, a definite focus of the eastern vista without overwhelming the observer. The house itself was made of egg-white stone, though Sherlock suspected the façade had been completely rebuilt if only to reinforce the manor’s original Greek Revival form.

“Dr. Osbourne had the front done first,” Michael explained. “The back’s still a mess, but that’s because she’s having the entire place overhauled, starting with the left wing.”

The lad proved to be truthful because when the car pulled up to the rear of the mansion, the original façade revealed its woebegone state. 

Michael led them through a door that looked deceptively weak, but on the inside revealed to be completely made of steel. Sherlock was surprised to find the entire doorway had been similarly reinforced.

John glanced at Sherlock and the two exchanged knowing looks. Dr. Osbourne may believe in a ghosts but she was not above suspecting more human intruders to be the cause of her problems.

Michael led them to a recently renovated kitchen by the smell of paint and the gleam of the hardwood floors. There was a single occupant, a woman sitting in a homey, wooden breakfast nook that was completely out of place with the stainless steel appliances and cool, architectural Swedish furnishings.

She closed the violin case in front of her before standing up, but not before Sherlock got an appreciative glance of the lovely instrument. Then he had to fight off a smile when he heard John’s little ‘harrumpphh’ of annoyance. His friend had little in the way of vanity but his height had always been something of a sore point. And it could only worsen as Dr. Osbourne was easily Sherlock’s height.

“Thank you for coming,” Dr. Osbourne said. 

She crossed the kitchen in marshaled strides, obviously healthy if her clear hazel eyes and thick greying hair was anything to go by. She shook hands with both of them and invited them to sit with her.

“Your mum’s in the gardens already,” she told Michael as he poured a generous helping of coffee in his travel mug. 

The boy grunted his response, nabbed a scone and wrapped it in a napkin before heading out.

“I see you don’t stand on formality,” Sherlock said.

“Hardly seems fitting especially considering the chaos of this house.”

“True,” Sherlock agreed. “I must confess I am here more on my brother’s behalf. He was quite adamant that I help you though I must admit I do not deal with spectral mischief as a rule.”

“Ahh, Mycroft,” Dr. Osbourne said with a wry smile. “He is an interesting man, but I prefer to keep him at an arm’s distance. Less likely to disappoint either of us that way.”

Sherlock’s eyes gleamed with humour and admiration. “Wise choice.”

“I have to ask: Why Worthing?” John finally spoke.

Dr. Osbourne grinned. “In spite of my family’s roots as Boston Brahmins, I was raised in upper New Hampshire. Hard country with harder people, but I found my peace there, and the pragmatism I’ve learned from my grandfather has grounded me throughout my career. And Worthing fits my sensibilities, so here I am.

“Do you know what it is that I do?”

Sherlock waited for a moment. “It’s all hush hush, but I get the sense you are no longer a practicing physician.”

“And that would be correct,” Dr. Osbourne said. “I studied in Dartmouth and got my medical degree there. I specialized in organ transplants. When I was thirty-seven my son, Adam, was diagnosed with leukemia. It was stage two at the time. Despite our best efforts, the disease metastasized to stage four. We all know there is no stage five.”

“I am so sorry,” John said. “That must have been a nightmare.”

“It was. It took almost fourteen months, and every minute was unspeakable. After Adam had passed our marriage shattered. It took Jason and I three years before we were on speaking terms again. During those three years I became consumed with an idea: a way to test for cancer without invasive procedures.”

John leaned forward. “You found it, didn’t you?”

“Yes, I did. A single test that requires 5cc of blood, which reveals if the child needs further treatment. It doesn’t work on those past the age of seventeen, but on young children yes, the results were astonishing.”

“So, Worthing,” Sherlock said. “There is already a sizable pharmaceutical presence in the city.”

“Exactly,” Dr. Osbourne said. “The city is already familiar with the business and the technology because of GlaxoSmithKline. And since my husband is from West Sussex, I wanted to move close by, especially since his mother is in decline. For the first two years I will personally oversee the production, and if all goes well, I will personally choose my successor. I already have thirteen hospitals in England alone which will begin to roll out the testing process by the end of next year.”

John shook his head in awe. “That will save so much grief. I can’t even begin to tell you how grateful I would be as a doctor.”

“There are so many Adams in the world,” Dr. Osbourne said in a quiet voice. “So many wonderful children. I am just trying to prevent another me from being created. I wouldn’t wish that hell on anyone.”

Sherlock’s attention was riveted not on Dr. Osbourne but John. There was something in his friend’s voice that triggered Sherlock’s protective instincts.

_He knew a child, a young one if the pallor is anything to go by. And either the diagnosis came too late or the child died during treatment._

Sherlock didn’t mind children. Their thought processes were fascinating because they were so unpredictable. And, like the rest of humanity, the idea of a child suffering a prolonged, painful death stirred his temper.

“About the ghost?” Sherlock prompted, wanting to get away from the current topic. The emotions he felt made Sherlock uncomfortable, and watching John suffer made him pricklier than usual.

“I was warned about the Blue Boy even before I bought the place.”

“A boy?” John echoed.

Dr. Osbourne nodded. “Yes, a child, dressed in dark blue. He has jet-black hair and was rumoured to be a cripple because his gait is so horrible. You only see him at night, and only in the rose garden, located in the back, furthest from the house. I thought the idea was … well, quite frankly, complete horseshit.”

Sherlock smiled a little. “Something the locals dreamed up to frighten the Yank?”

She nodded. “Exactly. But … but … I’ve seen him twice, Mr. Holmes. And my God, it was awful. The boy looks wretched, and his walk – it looks like he’s actually dragging both his feet, and I know that doesn’t make sense. But there is no other way to explain what I’ve seen. He looks tortured.”

“Do you believe he is a ghost?” John asked.

“I wasn’t sure, but then my car was stolen. And I hardly think a ghost would require a joyride. Do you?”

“Why do you insist on connecting the ghost to the theft of the car?” Sherlock was puzzled by the doctor’s insistence on this point.

“Mr. Holmes, I saw him in my bedroom the night of the theft. As clearly as I see you now.”

Dr. Osbourne stopped speaking and took three deep breaths. Even now it was obvious the incident had left her traumatized.

“I went to bed early, but woke up right at midnight. I turned on the light and there he was, standing between the desk and the door. I ended up hyperventilating. I must have passed out because I woke up when my alarm went off. I wanted to go into town as soon as possible, to talk to someone about what I had seen. 

“It was then I discovered my car keys, which was sitting on the vanity table, were gone.”

“Did you tell anyone?” John’s tone was both solicitous and angry.

Sherlock felt a frisson of anger, too. The thought that a stranger had violated the sanctity of Dr. Osbourne's bedroom, much less her home, further needled his temper.

“Just my husband, Thomas. Unfortunately, he must have told someone in town because it has become common knowledge at Ashurst. 

“Dr. Watson, you must understand … if anyone in my family back in the States heard of my ghostly encounters … well, some of my cousins wouldn’t hesitate to use it to usurp me from HemeTech.”

“Even though it was your money that was used to build the company?” Sherlock queried, already knowing the answer.

“The Osbourne Empire has many leaders, all of whom are men, Mr. Holmes. And all of them are unhappy that I had not handed the reins over to them after I’ve finished my research. They are quite old schooled you see, and the thought of a woman, even someone with my credentials, representing the family in the media and the world of pharmaceuticals … well, let’s just say their patience has been well tested these last eighteen months.”

“But you married Lord Thomas Evenstone, an heir to a family fortune and a well-known confidante of the Royal Family,” Sherlock countered.

Dr. Osbourne laughed, and it was a gutsy sound. “Oh, Mr. Holmes, Thomas is the second son and heir to only the family name. And if his brother is the profligate their father was, the family fortune will be gone before long. As for the Royal family, well, their loyalty belonged to his grandfather who had amassed the family fortune during World War II, not his heirs. When the Queen passes, so will the preference for the Evenstone family.”

“Sounds like your husband got the better deal, then,” John stated plainly.

“Thomas is a lovely man, despite the fact he had suffered what I’d honestly call child abuse from that bastard of a father. He has a head for business, and really, my father-in-law all but guaranteed bankruptcy for his family when he turned over the controls to Marcus, the eldest. They have two sisters; one who will divorce at least three times and probably end up in at least four scandals. Bea, the youngest, has managed to evade the family’s pitfalls by leaving them when she was sixteen. She didn’t come to our wedding because she wanted to avoid the drama, but plans to visit when Temple Lake is done. Thomas is quite fond of her.”

Sherlock’s impression of Dr. Osbourne improved steadily as she spoke. He had expected to find an intelligent if also hysterical woman at the edge of her wits. Instead, he found this bedrock of devotion and brilliance. And if the shining admiration in John’s eyes was anything to go by, so did his friend.

Sherlock sat back and gave a small sigh. “The only problem I foresee is Dr. Watson.”

At this, John looked at him, eyes wide in shock. “Pardon?”

“When we recover the Aston Martin and get rid of the ghost – could John drive the car if only around the manor?”

Dr. Osbourne’s laughter completely drowned out John’s splutter of indignation.

* * *

It took Sherlock nearly thirty minutes to drag John out of the kitchen with its bottomless pot of tea to their quarters down the hall, in the newly-renovated left wing.

John unpacked for both of them since he didn’t trust Sherlock to do so without hogging all the wardrobe space: a fear well warranted. 

Sherlock liked to store his clothes by colour, a habit that was well developed by his love of indexing. It was also a personality trait John consistently failed to appreciate. They were called in to solve a triple homicide in Cardiff, and ended up sharing a hotel room. John had thrown a minor fit when he’d discovered Sherlock had commandeered the entire bureau, and that one drawer held only a pair of grey socks. 

After that, Sherlock decided to let John unpack because it was one less tedious chore he had to perform, and one that made John surprisingly happy.

“So, do you want to go to garden now?” John asked, tucking his gun into the belt holster.

“No,” Sherlock said. “We can leave that for later. Between the autumn rain, the dogs, and the gardeners, I sincerely doubt there is any useful evidence remaining. I am more interested in the house itself. We should start with the floors that are not currently in use. Of course, if you want to look through the woods for the Aston Martin, be my guest.”

John gave a weak glare but remained quiet as Sherlock took the lead. They made their way down the corridor and into the back of the house where the servant stairs were located.

“So, did you grow up in a mansion like this?” John asked as they made their way upwards.

“The architecture is similar, but our home is less aesthetically pleasing. The layout is quite uneven to allow more sunlight into the rooms,” Sherlock answered before opening the door to the abandoned second floor.

Here, the damage was plain to see. Dry rot and various infestations had left their mark on everything, including the furnishings.

“Some of this is lovely,” John said as he studied a room elegantly laid out with chairs and tables.

“Dr. Osbourne must have gone through and picked out what could be saved,” Sherlock commented, pointing at spots on the floor. It was obvious that furniture had rested once in the empty spaces and was removed only recently.

“I don’t get it. Who would abandon a place like this fully furnished?” John asked.

Sherlock turned to his friend, his eyes alight. “Exactly. One could make quite a fortune stripping this manor of its goods. Even the fixtures would have fetched a handsome price if sold to the right buyer.”

He tapped the scone right above his head. “Made in 1921, Paris. Art Deco, obviously. And though most of the furniture is older than that, there are newer pieces that Sotheby would have taken interest in.”

“So, whoever owned the place before Dr. Osbourne didn’t much care for it.”

“No, John, it’s worse than that. It’s willful and spiteful neglect perpetrated over years if not decades.”

“You’re saying someone actively hated this place? Like as if it were a person?”

“Exactly so.”

John peered at him. “You’re saying someone _murdered_ Temple Lake.”

Sherlock’s puckish smile was all the answer John needed. He shook his head and muttered, “Christ,” but it was all done with good humour. “We’re dealing with murderers of houses now.”

Sherlock stopped at the end of the hall and looked at the other end. “Hmm,” he said. “Let’s go upstairs.”

The third floor was even in worse shape. Added to the destruction revealed downstairs, there was also severe water damage. Everything was in the worst condition possible with half of the floor separated by curtains of industrial plastic. John glanced behind and saw fresh woodwork and scattered electric equipment. The walls were torn down and whatever was used as the frame was being completely replaced.

“Dr. Osbourne is serious about the renovation,” John said, examining the new floor joists. If she does this for the entire house it will cost a fortune.”

“She can easily afford it,” Sherlock said. “Her net worth is over five hundred million American dollars. And that is before her test kit goes on the market.”

John blinked owlishly at Sherlock’s pronouncement. “Okay, then she will have no problem resurrecting Temple Lake.”

“Though you have to wonder if it is advisable. How does the local gentry feel about all this?”

“Surely with her money being spent at Worthing, they should practically buy Dr. Osbourne celebratory pints at the local house.”

“Some might, but there is a reason this house was in such disuse. And why none of the locals did anything about it. With this amount of land, it would have been financially sound decision to buy Temple Lake and develop it.”

John glanced about the renovated wing before letting the plastic sheets fall back in place. “I guess. You have to admit it is lovely home, neglected or not. I could see how it would have been considered a jewel at Ashurst.”

“But it wasn’t, John,” Sherlock said impatiently. “It never made the Trust. From the records, no one had ever recommended it. What might you deduce from that?”

“Either the local gentry didn’t like the house or the owner, more like.”

“Exactly.” Sherlock froze in midstep and studied the wall in front of him. The lighting was exceptionally poor at this end as the servants’ quarters had tiny windows. With the dust motes floating about, the ghost theory was given a more credible look.

“This hall’s shorter than the one downstairs,” Sherlock said as he studied the wall.

“Could be because they didn’t need that many rooms? Or maybe there is a lumber room somewhere.”

“If that were true - where are the stairs?”

The two men retraced their footsteps and it took them two tries before they found a door in a cupboard, boarded up behind cheap shelving.

“Okay, then,” John said. “This is definitely in the realm of strange behaviour.”

“Nobody used the lumber room?” Sherlock asked quietly. “That doesn’t make sense. It would be the biggest storage area available. Just the holiday paraphernalia would have forced the owners to use it.”

John didn’t say anything. Instead, he took hold of a watering can, hefted its weight in his hands before using it to pull out the rotting shelves. When the doorway was cleared, they discovered a heavy metal padlock where the doorknob was supposed to be.

“Now I’m concerned,” John said. “Why would anyone want do this?”

“Well, petty thievery was quite common, and rich families would store valuable antiques.”

John pointed at the antique brass padlock dangling in front of them. “That look like something you’d use to protect your chairs?”

Sherlock remembered the locks at his home. “No, not really.”

John shook it and they watched as flakes of metal snowfalled everywhere. 

“I suspected as much,” he said. “It’s rusted through. Stand back.”

Sherlock did, wondering what John would do next.

He kicked the doorknob plate and left the padlock untouched. The whole thing crashed inwards, shooting enough dust into the air to make both men sneeze.

“That’s interesting,” Sherlock said as he peered above to a well-lit space. “After you, Captain.”

John hummed a little, the only tell revealing his anxiety before marching up the stairs. Sherlock hung back a little, mostly to admire John’s fine form from behind. Something he rarely indulged in.

“Bloody hell,” John said as he got the first eyeful. “I did not expect this.”

Sherlock peered over his friend’s shoulder and had to agree with John’s assessment.

They were prepared for chaos, a storage space that ran the entire length and breadth of the house stuffed with rotting furniture, disused antiques and maybe a city of mice complete with public transportation system.

Instead, they were faced with a huge room that was completely empty. There wasn’t even a mousetrap to be found. The windows were covered in dust but there was enough light to reveal the place had been used as a gym of sorts.

Sherlock touched the drawings on the walls. “It is a faithful recreation of a natatorium. I’d say in the late nineteenth century. The artwork is above average even though the artist was clearly an amateur.” John pointed at the rafters. "Smoke damage, there must have been some kind of fire. Could be why it was boarded up."

He then cautiously walked down the room with Sherlock trailing behind. It felt unnatural for Sherlock to be the one following, but he knew John was using more than his expertise here. The doctor’s instincts had been honed to a fine point thanks to nearly two decades of service in the military. So, it made sense for him to take point in this particular scenario.

They made it to the other end without mishap, leaving Sherlock disappointed. He was rather hoping to see John in action. Though against what or whom, Sherlock wasn’t sure.

A color discrepancy on the wallpaper caught Sherlock’s attention. He examined it more closely and found the hidden door. 

“This is strange,” he said.

“Seems to be theme here,” John quipped.

Sherlock pointed at at another part of the wall. “There are three doors all leading here, which makes sense. You would need them to bring up whatever needed to be stored. But they’ve all been boarded up, except for this one which was wallpapered over.”

He opened it to a mawing darkness that spiraled downwards. “I’m guessing these stairs lead to the missing section of the floor below.”

“Fantastic, and once we get the some equipment we can explore properly.”

Sherlock looked at John in shock but before he could get a word out John barreled on. “No, just no, Sherlock. Look, the stairs could be rotten, which is pretty much guaranteed if the rest of the house is anything to go by. And there could be bats, badgers even. And that’s the stuff I can kill with a bullet. You have to admit something’s going on and whatever it is, let’s find ourselves some torches and then tell Dr. Osbourne what the hell we’ve found. Yeah?”

Sherlock tried his icy glare. It failed, so he resorted to a disappointed pout. That didn’t work, either. Which meant John was serious enough not to be dissuaded.

Having no recourse, Sherlock followed his friend back to the third floor.

“Well, at least there wasn’t the creepy piano sonata,” John said conversationally.

“Are there creepy piano sonatas in hauntings?”

“Only with polite English ghosts. The Americans have fingernails-down-the-blackboard.”

“And others?”

“The Japanese and Korean movies have silence, which is the creepiest of all.”

Sherlock would have preferred those ghosts, in fact. And then wondered if such spectral entities would have frightened him to any degree because of his marked preference for silence.

* * *

Michael’s pale face seemed outright grey in the attic light as he dragged his heels behind them. “You actually want to go exploring there? Why? And why me?”

“Because you’re a healthy young man with a zest for adventure,” Sherlock answered impatiently as he hooked up the first electrical lantern right outside the dark entrance. John was last, making sure the electrical cords didn’t tangle themselves behind the trio.

With the first lantern lit, Sherlock quickly began making his way to the hidden room below. His eagerness had tripled as John gathered what he called ‘necessary supplies’, which included Michael who was unfortunately within John’s eyeshot when they returned to the kitchen to inform Dr. Osbourne of what they had discovered.

By the time they got to the walled-off section, Sherlock had only three lanterns in his hands. Fortunately, between the tiny windows and the electrical torches, there was enough light for them to examine the spacious room.

Sherlock pointed his torch at the ceiling. “There was smoke damage. The fireplace might have been accidentally plugged at some point.”

He then shone his torch on the bed, which had noticeable sag. “It was built that way.”

John reluctantly looked under the frame and found Sherlock’s declaration to be correct. “This bed is tiny. Looks like it was made for a seven-year-old.”

“You must remember, a century ago, you would have been considered above average in height for men,” Sherlock corrected him. “Calculating the fact that the boy had kyphosis, I’d see he was closer to nine, maybe ten, even.”

“What is kyph…” Michael didn’t finish his sentence.

“Curved back,” John answered softly, pointing to a metal corset next to the bed. “Back then, it would have doomed him to a life of misunderstanding, pity, even hatred.”

“Look at that,” Michael said, pointing at a ceramic bathtub at the corner of the room. “It must have been horrible to bathe in that thing.”

John looked around the room. “No expenses were spared, but there is nothing personal about this room.”

“No, there isn’t,” Sherlock agreed somberly. “And now we know the legend about the Blue Boy is based on truth. There was a child hidden away here. And something happened, something so horrible the locals still talk about it.”

“That we do,” Michael confessed readily. “There are a lot of versions, but they all say the same thing: the boy was murdered.”

“Who would know the facts, or the closest to them?”

“I’d say Vicar Tykes. He’s retired but still lives in town. You’d probably find him at Muddy Duck during tea.”

Sherlock studied the floor behind the bed. “This area has been disturbed, though it has been at least six months. Look at this.”

John peered over and immediately reared back. “That’s a child’s footprint.”

“And that’s the cue for me to leave,” Michael said. “I know you two are the heroes in this story so I’ll just go back to my mum and not think about the last twenty minutes.”

Without another word, he rushed out, leaving behind two very disturbed men.

* * *

“My God,” Dr. Osbourne whispered. “I had no idea.”

“You would have discovered the room when the restoration reached the right wing,” Sherlock said. “So, it was only a matter of time before the truth was revealed.”

“Exactly what did you hear about this boy?” John asked.

“The version I heard was that his father murdered him because he was going to remarry, and the bride was very young.”

“The father must have been very wealthy,” Sherlock prompted.

“Oh yes, the family made their fortune in mining and tea, I believe. The first wife supposed to have died from a road accident while the husband was away. Her death prompted him to come back and from there the story goes hazy.”

“We need to borrow a car to go to town,” Sherlock said, standing up. 

“You believe the ghost is real?” Dr. Osbourne asked.

“Hardly,” Sherlock said dryly. “I believe that someone wants you to believe it, and have gone to great lengths to make it so. In fact, I believe the person or persons may have inveigled a child to act as a ghost.”

Dr. Osbourne looked completely flummoxed. “But why?”

“That is the question,” Sherlock answered, eyes gleaming in a predatory manner. “And a very interesting question at that."

* * *

Sherlock’s eagerness was doused quite thoroughly as John took the driver’s seat. The ride was sedate as John seemed bent on enjoying the fresh air and the clear, blue sky. Obviously not in any hurry to get to town and look into the mystery they were paid to solve.

Grumbling under his breath, Sherlock sank as low as his seatbelt would allow. The town itself was quaint, bordering in kitsch, but it was obvious that Ashurst was doing well. The main street was lined with shops that didn’t cater to tourists, and there was more than one grocer whose doors were wide open on a warm Saturday afternoon. 

“This is nice, very nice,” John commented as they made their way to Muddy Duck. 

“Think harder, John,” Sherlock warned his friend. “Even though London is teeming with vices, at least we have an inkling of what is happening. Here, far from prying eyes, evil can be perpetrated behind these picturesque doors and no one the wiser.”

“And there goes my idea of a weekend in the country,” John grumbled. “You really think that?”

“Some of my most gruesome cases have been in towns like Ashurst,” Sherlock said gleefully. “There was a case of cannibalism that would have turned even your stomach.”

“Well, let’s not discuss that during tea, shall we?” John begged as he opened the door to Muddy Duck. 

Sherlock was pleased to see that there were few guests, and that the pub was completely renovated, reinforcing the idea of Ashurst’s wealth. 

What surprised Sherlock was the landlord, as she couldn’t be older than Molly.

“What will you be having?” The young woman asked cheerfully the moment they walked up to her.

“Two of whatever’s on tap,” John said easily, taking a stool right in front of her.

Sherlock sat next to him, trying to ignore the fact that Three Continents Watson just made his appearance. The woman, on the other hand, was very appreciative of that fact.

“You’re new here,” she said. “Name’s Julia.”

“I am Dr. Watson and this is Mr. Sherlock Holmes,” John said. “I think you probably know why we’re here, though.”

Julia’s smile was bright. “You’d be right. Dr. Osbourne was beside herself when her car got stolen. And trust me, everyone in Ashurst went looking for that beauty as soon as we heard about it.”

“That’s not the only reason we’re here, though,” John said in a more subdued tone. “The Blue Boy? I’m sure you heard of it.”

Julia shook her head. “I knew that would come back and bite us in the arse. Look, when Dr. Osbourne moved here there were a lot of tongues wagging. Temple Lake always had a bad reputation, mostly because its owners were just … well, complete shites if you want the truth.”

“Do you know about the last one?” Sherlock asked. 

“Oh, that one was a right bastard,” Julia answered eagerly. “Temple Lake was sold off to an actor by the name of Benjamin Peckham in 1932? Maybe 1933? He was very popular actor in the thirties and the forties. Well, until he murdered his wife; hung her in the attic with his belt. When they arrested him, though, the tosser claimed he had the right to do it.”

“And what was Mr. Peckham’s salient legal defense?” Sherlock asked drily.

“That she was a German spy,” Julia said, shaking her head. “Complete bollocks that was. In fact, she worked for the SIS against the Nazis. She was Austrian by birth, but her mother was a Russian Jew. The British managed to smuggle out her family from Austria in 1938, but she remained behind to work for them for as long as she could. I don’t know if she struck a deal with the SIS or not, but she did some good work. When it got too hot for her, she hiked her way to Switzerland and got to England before we declared war.

“Why she married Peckham is anyone’s guess, but when she died and the truth came out nobody was keen on seeing him get a light sentence. In the end he didn’t see trial, though. He was packed off in a dark car one night, and nothing was heard of him until 1951 when the vicar got news that the bastard had suddenly died in custody.”

“I’m guessing nobody passed his mourning,” Sherlock said, taking a delicate sip of his pint.

“Good guess,” Julia said. “Want something to eat?”

“Just some crisps, please,” John said. “And the Blue Boy?”

Julia shook her head. “Nasty story that one.”

“We were told to speak to the Vicar Tykes about it,” John revealed. “Just to make sure we can separate fact from fiction.”

Julia smiled. “Yeah, that would be wise. The current one means well, but he doesn’t seem to understand that the past has a firm grip on Ashurst. That’s probably because Johnston’s only twenty-seven. Give him another twenty years, he’ll come to our way of thinking.”

“Is Tykes here?” Sherlock asked, not turning to look around the room.

“No, he twisted his ankle last week. Laid up in his house, the poor man.”

They finished their pints, left a generous payment for their drinks and bags of crisps, and received Tyke’s address in return. Sherlock thought it a fair exchange, especially since John didn’t ask for Julia’s phone number before leaving.

“I’m surprised you didn’t ask her for a date,” Sherlock said.

John laughed softly. “She’s right out of Uni. I can’t remember when I dated a woman that age. Besides, I’d feel like a right pervert if I’d accepted her offer.”

Sherlock looked at him. “She gave you her number? How?”

“She wrote it on a napkin and slid it under the crisps,” John answered, smiling fondly as if he were remembering a sweet memory.

Sherlock grimaced. Damn it. How could he have neglected that old chestnut? 

“Besides, if that tow-headed lad has anything to say about it, I doubt Julia will remain single for long. He seems her type.”

Sherlock remembered the young man John spoke of. He’d thought the ‘lad’ had more than a passing resemblance to John. Obviously, so did John.

The vicar lived in a cottage that seemed right out of Miss Marple series. In spite of the fact that it was October, wisteria was still dripping through the intricate latticework that laced the entire front of the house.

The man who answered the door could have been fifty-five or eighty-five, it was hard to tell. He still possessed a head full of dark hair, and the brown eyes were lively with curiousity as he studied the strangers at his door.

John made the formal instructions, and to Sherlock’s relief the former Vicar of Ashurst ushered them into his office.

“I wondered if anything would come of Temple Lake having new owners,” William Tykes said as he poured them some brandy. “It’s been passed around quite often since it was built, and for a good reason.”

“We found a hidden room,” Sherlock explained. “And we believe its former occupant was the Blue Boy.”

Tykes took a sharp breath and shook his head. “I wondered if the room survived the fire. I need to show you something.”

He left in a hurry and came back with a small leather box. With great care Tykes opened the lid. Even from a distance, Sherlock could smell camphor and lavender.

Tykes handed over a small frame featuring a fair-headed man with stern brows and prominent chin.

“His name was Peter Greenburgh, and he was a local. His father, Joshua Greenburgh, made a fortune importing goods from the United States before their civil war broke out. Realizing it was impossible to do business through that mess, Greenburgh Senior set his sights in Africa and India. It got to be so profitable Joshua sent his only son, Peter, to oversee the family business in India. And for the next two years he did a great deal of traveling on his father's behalf.”

“He seems a hard man,” John commented.

“No harder than his father,” Tykes answered. “Peter was the product of his time no more, no less. Joshua died a month after his son had left for India in 1867, and the ownership transferred completely to Peter. The family’s wealth grew and Temple Lake was built in eighteen months, which was considered record time back in those days. Peter already had a daughter, Edith, with his wife, Alice, and another on the way. 

“You’d think with a pregnant wife he’d settle down, but he didn’t. He kept traveling for the next four years, and the next five – he stayed away completely. Peter finally settled down in the summer of 1876 with a daughter who was now a woman, and a wife whose marital bed he hadn’t occupied in over five years.”

The next picture was portraiture in awkwardness. Greenburgh looked dashing in his somber outfit, and the two women flanking him would definitely be considered beauties of their time. But there was a sense of unease and confusion in their faces, as if they were complete strangers posing together for the first time.

“Three months after Peter returned, Alice died in an accident. There was an inquest, of course, but it was ruled death by misadventure.”

“What happened?” Sherlock asked, enthralled by the story, and honestly appreciative of the fact that Tykes had such wealth of information about a family that died out over a century ago.

“Her driver lost control and the carriage flipped. It was one of those open contraptions, so the poor woman didn’t have a chance. And that, as they say, was that.”

“Peter left for the Continent because he was said to be ‘grieving’, but if he did, it didn’t last long. Six months later he came back with a new wife, Josephine, a French beauty and a titled one at that. She was also the same age as Edith, and that caused a lot of tongues wagging here and in London.”

The next picture showed a raven-haired woman whose similarities to her predecessor was uncanny if also unnerving.

“I see he had a type,” was Sherlock’s dry observation.

“But as where Alice didn’t move a finger against her husband, Josephine did. You see, she had no idea until she was settled in Temple Lake that not only did she have a daughter but a son, a crippled hunchback named Timothy.”

Sherlock leaned forward for a picture but none were forthcoming. “There is no pictorial evidence?”

Tykes shook his head. “None. No one save the immediate family and two faithful servants knew about the boy’s existence. You see, he was only allowed outside at night, and those ventures were brief because of his physical problems. Josephine was rumoured to have felt sorry for him because Timothy had a very sweet and forgiving nature. So, under the guise of French frivolity, Josephine had the attic cleared and painted, in order to give Timothy some room to breathe outside of his personal suite.”

“Brave woman,” John said. “That couldn’t have pleased her husband.”

“She was very smart and a practiced coquette. And I’m sure Peter felt like an emperor granting a reprieve to a condemned prisoner. Besides, this allowed the boy to remain indoors and not be seen outside at all.”

Sherlock let out a sharp breath. “Peter had a plan for his son, didn’t he?”

“We’ll never know. What is known is this. In the early morning of November the 19th, 1878 a fire broke out in the right wing, below Peter's chambers. The servants were already awake so they made it out safely along with Peter and his wife. Edith was in London so she was in no immediate danger.”

“But not the son,” John concluded. “They left the boy behind?”

“Timothy somehow managed to drag himself out of his room, and into the attic where his body was found. Mercifully the smoke killed him and not the actual flames.”

“And that was how his existence was discovered,” Sherlock concluded.

“Ashurst hasn’t stopped talking about it since,” Tyke said, shaking his head. “No blame was formally laid on the father, but you have to wonder. First wife dies in a carriage accident, and now, the deformed son in a fire that mysteriously started and managed to only kill him?”

“How could anyone not hear him screaming?” John asked.

“As it were, Timothy was active at night, so he would usually sleep until noon if not later. By the time he’d woken up, it was too late.”

“How old was he?” Sherlock asked.

“Eleven but the surgeon who’d examined him said he looked all of seven.” Tykes took a deep breath and continued, “If there was profit to be had by the death of his son, Peter didn’t live long enough to enjoy it. The next spring he was thrown from his horse during an evening ride. And like his first wife, Peter died immediately from his injuries. Josephine packed up and left for Paris, taking Edith with her. The girl met a good man there, married, and elected to stay in Paris with her new bosom companion, the widow of Temple Lake.”

“And the place?” Sherlock asked.

“It was let over the years, until sold to the actor, Peckham, who bought it for pennies in 1932. He renovated the place and then had these lavish parties for his friends. Since the sea was nearby, they’d boat from London and then drive to Temple Lake where they raised hell from what I’ve understood. And this practice went on even after he married the Austrian, Eva Brunner.”

“Why did she marry him?” John asked. 

“Because she was ordered to by the SIS,” Tykes said. “Peckham was a Nazi sympathizer, and well-connected one at that. He had networks all the way to the United States.”

John pinched the bridge of his nose. “Christ, the bastard was an assignment?”

“Yes, and it must have been a hard one, even for a woman like Eva Brunner. And you have to wonder exactly what he did to repulse her so much, since she was actually a member of the Austrian National Social Party in 1938.”

“Did he hang her?” John asked reluctantly. “I’m only asking because that would sound tame compared to what’s going on in my mind.”

Sherlock was mentally categorizing the most gruesome uxorocides in their case files when John asked that question. 

“He did indeed hang her, in the attic which was empty but boarded up because of damp and smoke damage. Why? Only the government knows. They scooped him up from the local constabulary right after his arrest. They never said where they were taking him. And they were just as forthcoming about where he was buried. Not that anyone cared enough to ask.”

“And Temple Lake remained empty until Dr. Osbourne.” Sherlock sat back in his chair. “Did you try to dissuade her from purchasing the place?”

Tykes flushed and nodded. “Yes, yes I did. I had a conversation with her when she first visited Ashurst, and she struck me as a good woman; someone who could accomplish a great deal for humanity. I didn’t think she would benefit from living in Temple Lake, so I told her about the Blue Boy and all that rubbish. 

“Nothing came of it. Or so I thought until Michael told me about what she’d seen. Sightings of Timothy Greeburgh have occurred regularly since his death. And there was even talk that was the reason why Josephine and Edith moved to Paris and never returned to England.”

“Have you seen him?” Sherlock asked.

Tykes looked like he’d been hit in the face. The man shrank back in his chair and for a moment hid his face behind his right hand.

“You’ve seen him,” John’s voice was filled with disbelief. “You actually saw him?”

Tykes nodded. “After Dr. Osbourne’s first sighting, I decided to have a look myself and snuck into the gardens one night. It was horrible. I didn’t dare get any closer. And I haven’t returned to Temple Lake since. I don’t plan to either.”

Their visit didn’t last long after that. It was as if the confession had exhausted Tykes. Sherlock was glad to go. He was positively buzzing with excitement.

“This case is definitely a seven maybe even an eight,” he declared as John drove them back to Temple Lake.

“Really? So, no ghost?”

Sherlock gave a nonplussed look at his friend. “None, but there is definitely a child involved. We have two adults who had seen this so-called ghost from completely different angles and at different times. So, the question remains: why?”

“To drive away Dr. Osbourne?” John answered. “Maybe a rival company seeking to get rid of the competition before it even happens?”

“But she could develop the drug in the United States, or Canada, or even Australia. But you’re right about one thing: the hauntings are all directed at Osbourne.”

“But there have been other sightings, before. So, could we really say that?”

Sherlock felt pleasure curl in his gut when he heard John speak ‘we’ but feigned a negligent tone. “Those can be called into question, especially since we haven’t interviewed the witnesses. But we have spoken to Tykes and Osbourne. And unless both were hallucinating: there is definitely a child dressed in blue, haunting the grounds and the manor itself.”

“Well, we could look around for families with small children,” John offered reluctantly. “But how do we do that without being arrested?”

“Why would we be arrested?” Sherlock asked, puzzled by John’s statement.

The strangled noise John made only further confused Sherlock.

* * *

Dr. Osbourne played her violin well into the night. Her concert was definitely inferior to Sherlock’s, but he had to admit her rendition of Massenet’s _Meditation_ was lovely. He also noted that his version at age six was better.

But the reel she played at the end was enchanting. It was definitely American in origin, though Sherlock wasn’t sure if the song was borne in the Appalachians or something she had learned growing up in New Hampshire.

Sherlock continued to listen and by eleven John and their hostess prepared for bed. He didn’t plan on sleeping. In fact, Sherlock was actually waiting for the Blue Boy. He’d turned off all the lights in his room and was avidly studying the garden outside his windows. Sherlock would have invited John, but his friend didn’t do so well without some rest, and it had only been recently since John’s sleeping pattern had fully recovered from Baskerville.

The house went quiet for less than an hour when John’s footsteps greeted his door. Sherlock opened it before John even knocked. He took in his friend’s ashen face and tight breaths.

“You saw him,” Sherlock stated flatly.

“He was in my room, Sherlock,” John managed to say, his voice thin and high. “Jesus Christ, he was in my room.”

Sherlock didn’t need any further prompting. He rushed to John’s bedroom which was two doors down and barged in. The room’s ceiling light was on, revealing John’s bed in complete disarray.

John pointed at a corner. ”He was standing there.”

Sherlock examined the area. He knocked on the panels and soon found what he suspected. The lower panel swung inwards, revealing a roomy crawlspace.

“Oh, the little shite,” John hissed. 

“Bring your gun,” Sherlock said.

John raised an incredulous eyebrow. “I might be pissed but I’m not going to shoot a child!”

“Not the child, but we can’t be sure how harmless the adult conspirator might be!”

John made a soundless ‘o’ and put on his shoes while arming himself. The two men crawled into the maze and began looking for signs of recent trespass. It was obvious that, indeed, the hidden corridor was used and used frequently.

“It probably goes through this entire house,” Sherlock whispered. 

“Do you think Timothy used it?”

“No, he would have had to crawl as we do. And it would have been painful for him to move about in such a manner. The crawlspace was probably used for repairs and like. I don’t think the owners would have had real knowledge of it. Could you imagine Peter Greenburgh or his father going about on their hands on knees?”

They followed the dusty trail to a door that popped out into the servants’ kitchen. It was in disuse, abandoned for decades. The fixtures told Sherlock it was built well before the wars.

“I feel like I’ve stepped back in time,” John uttered as he examined the porcelain sink still holding tin cups. 

Sherlock tried the switches but they were of no use. However, there was enough moonlight to lead them out the kitchen door and into a small yard overgrown with weeds. 

“The servants would have grown their vegetables here,” Sherlock explained. “The guests would never have seen it, as their rooms would not face this way.”

“Do you get the feeling that whoever is behind this knows Temple Lake better than anyone living?” John asked. “Because they’ve led us a merry chase so far.”

“Yes, I do get that feeling.”

John was looking around, his torch judiciously low on the ground when the scream rendered the night’s calm. It was high, tormented, and obviously from a little girl.

John began running towards the noise. Sherlock was only able to keep up with him because of his stride. How John was able to navigate through the gardens’ various maze-like walkways was astonishing. Surely Sherlock would be able to do so in London because he had actually memorized the entire city’s layout. But here, in Temple Lake, neither of them had any chance to sufficiently study the grounds surrounding the manor.

The latest cry suddenly cut off ominously, inspiring the men run faster. Then, another scream from a different voice, this time a boy, began.

John rushed to the treeline where two little figures were visible. One was lying on the ground, unmoving while the other standing over the unconscious figure, his actions jerky and frantic.

The boy saw them and shouted, “Help! Something’s wrong with her!”

Sherlock saw now that the boy on the ground was no such creature, but a girl dressed up as a boy. John pulled apart the velvet blue blazer and a Mickey Mouse t-shirt greeted them. He gave a cursory examination then shouted:

“Call 999! She’s still alive!”

Sherlock did exactly that, as the lights in the manor began to turn on from room to room, signaling its owner had awoken. Then the dogs began barking excitedly as Dr. Osbourne rushed outside. It took her only a moment to see their torchlight and she was with them soon enough.

The next twelve minutes was filled with calm voices signaling the steady decline of the child’s vital signs. Sherlock watched in fascination as they tried intubation to get oxygen into the girl’s lungs. When that failed, an emergency tracheotomy was performed right in the open.

And yet, despite both doctors’ endeavours, Emily Straker was pronounced dead at the scene by the emergency personnel not twenty minutes later.

* * *

Janet Straker, a woman who had drowned in grief, couldn’t answer any question put to her. Her husband was a lorry driver and was away, somewhere in Scotland. The local constabulary managed to locate him and had to tell him over the phone of his little girl’s demise.

The boy, Jason Laramie, was corralled by his parents who were horrified of Emily’s death and yet silently grateful that Death had spared their son. 

“I’m afraid this can’t wait any longer,” Detective Inspector Gregory said, his voice kind but firm. “If I do, I will be forced to take this down to the station, Ruthie. No, don’t look at me like that, Ben. A girl’s dead and your boy was found standing over her.”

The father snapped his mouth closed. His irate gaze dampened as Janet Straker was led out of the room, her eyes empty and unfocused.

“Do you think you can tell us, darling?” Ruthie gently asked. “Please? For Emily?”

Jason nodded tearfully. The DI motioned for Sherlock and John to join the group.

“Go on, then. Be a good lad and tell us what happened tonight,” Ben whispered encouragingly to his son. “We’re not angry. We’re really not.”

Jason looked at his parents. “It was a stupid prank, that’s all it was. I swear, we didn’t mean anything bad. We heard you and Mr. Neymouth complain about how the American lady was going to stir up all sorts of trouble for the town when she bought Temple Lake. So, we were going to scare her away. That was all, I swear.”

The father closed his eyes and shook his head, but he wisely remained silent as Jason plowed on.

“Emily and I found the puppies in March. I knew you weren’t going to let us keep them, so we kept them in Temple Lake because it was empty back then. We fed Athos and Aramis with our own money. We kept them in the old kitchen, but Emily was feeling brave one day and we took to exploring.”

“And that was when you found the hidden room,” Sherlock added.

Jason looked at Sherlock with wide eyes. “You found it?”

“That and the secret corridor behind the walls,” John answered. “You two were very brave, indeed.”

“We found the clothing and took them, just to see if we could sell them to get some money for dog food. They were growing so fast and always needed to eat more. But we decided not to because we were scared. What if people started asking questions about where we got the clothes? Then … then the American moved in and took the dogs for herself. She even gave them new names, and we couldn’t visit them anymore. We got mad and Pa complained about her so much … we decided to scare her.”

“But you didn’t steal her car,” Sherlock concluded. “I doubt you could maneuver the steering wheel much less successfully steal an antique Martin.”

“No, no, we didn’t. I was in her room that night but I didn’t steal anything. We didn’t touch the car, I swear.”

“Why did you come back?” Gregory asked.

“Tonight was going to be our last night,” Jason answered and gave a frightened glance at the Londoners. “We heard about you and thought wouldn’t it be funny if we managed to scare the great Sherlock Holmes?

“It was Emily’s turn so she got dressed and everything was fine. She was coming back because she started sneezing … and then she started screaming. It was awful! I wanted to help her but I couldn’t. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”

Jason had reached the end of his tether and began bawling earnestly. 

Sherlock didn’t struggle as John led him away. The child was in no state to be interviewed. In all likelihood he’d be admitted to the hospital and sedated for the night.

Gregory joined them down the hall, far away from the grieving boy and his distressed parents. “I know who you are, and I honestly thought Dr. Osbourne had one too many when she hired you. But now, now I think it’s time you folks officially joined in.”

“Of course,” John said. “Emily Straker?”

“She’s in the morgue,” Gregory answered. “But gentlemen, our facilities are provincial, at best.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Sherlock answered. “I just need to see the body.”

The three men took the stairs in order to avoid the press. The basement was clean but there was dampness in the air along with the smell of bleach. The morgue itself was half of Molly’s domain but equally neat and well organized.

There was only one body, pathetically small under the protective drape. 

“Doctor McKenzie should be here soon,” Gregory explained. “He was visiting his granddaughter at Worthing. The baby was born just yesterday.”

John looked around, found the nitrile gloves in a cabinet and handed them to Gregory and Sherlock.

The girl’s complexion was naturally pale, made paler in comparison to her dark hair which was cut surprisingly short.

“There was a reoccurring case of head lice in the schools,” Jacobs said. “A lot of parents ended up cutting their kids’ hair short.”

Sherlock peered closely at the neck. “John, do you see this?”

John examined closely. “Those are hives.”

Without warning Sherlock began rolling up the velvet trousers. Both legs were covered with deep, viciously red hives.

“What…” Gregory faltered to speak.

John went around the table to the other side and helped Sherlock began undressing the girl. By the time she was in her pants it was obvious.

“My God, what is this?” Gregory finally mustered as he stared uncomprehendingly at the hives covering the child from the suprasternal notch down to her ankles.

“A severe allergic reaction,” John said. “Painful too.”

“Find out if she had any known allergies,” Sherlock barked out at the DI.

Gregory made a call, wisely ignoring Sherlock’s behaviour. His gaze sharpened when he got a reply. “She had peanut allergy. In fact she couldn’t go near any type of tree nuts. Jason said she had one of those allergy pens with her in school.”

“Christ, someone did this to her on purpose,” John said.

“The murderer coated the clothing with peanut dust. Emily did not realie and probably breathed it in when she wiped her nose on the sleeve of the jacket. It would have been work of minutes before the reaction set in.”

“And she wouldn’t have known what was happening. Not unless she had actually survived an attack,” John added. “A child would’ve just panicked and began screaming. Which would have made the allergic reaction even worse.”

“Her throat closes up, oxygen deprivation sets in,” Sherlock concluded. “She panics even more, her body uses up what little oxygen is left.”

John tore off his gloves and tossed them into the bin. Sherlock immediately noticed John flexing his hands into fists.

“There was nothing you could’ve done,” Sherlock said, gazing steadily at his friend. “Her heart might have continued to beat for a while, even after she lost consciousness. But the brain…”

“Who is this fucker?” John hissed out. “Who would torture a child like this?”

“It was the dogs,” Sherlock said as he took off his gloves. 

“The dogs?” John echoed. “The dogs didn’t do anything. Hell, they didn’t make a sound when the kids were running around, playing ghost!”

“Exactly,” Sherlock said. “The dogs didn’t bark, John. They never barked. Now why would they not do that?”

“Because they knew the children, so why would they bother?”

Sherlock looked at Gregory who was studying them with great intensity. “Ask Jason who bought the dog food for them. They couldn’t have, not without attracting unwanted attention.”

Gregory did as asked. This time the reply got a definite reaction from the DI. “Michael Hunter.”

"That's why the dogs didn't do anything," John said. "They knew him."

“He saw an opportunity and took it,” Sherlock said. “When Dr. Osbourne was unconscious he sneaked in and stole the car keys. But when he found out we were coming, he panicked."

“And he’s now trying to cover his tracks? By killing his neighbor's child?” The DI was aghast by the idea.

“He might not have known how severe Emily Straker’s reaction was going to be. Maybe he was trying to scare them into silence. Whatever his motives, he knows now that she is dead. 

“Detective Inspector, send out an APW for Michael Hunter. It won’t be too hard. He is driving the Aston Martin. It is now the only source of income he has besides what is currently in his wallet.”

Gregory didn’t hesitate and began calling even as he rushed out of the morgue. 

John looked down at the little girl. “All this because they heard their parents whinge about an American.”

“Parents should be careful of what they speak around their children, for they may be young but youth is not synonymous with idiocy.”

“Do you want to go after Hunter?” John offered.

“No. DI Gregory seems to be a capable officer. And I loathe cases involving child victims. They always leave me tired and confused.”

“Come on, then. Let’s go and talk to Dr. Osbourne so we could put her at rest.”

Sherlock looked at his friend. “Why?”

“Right now, Sherlock, she’s probably considering giving up her entire venture and going back to the States. And if she does that … well, let’s just say that Ashurst will probably get what it deserves, but that doesn’t make it right for the rest of us.

“I also want this entire mess sorted out for her. Let’s not forget: Dr. Osbourne is another victim.”

* * *

The morning was quiet, as the sun was just dawning. There were people about, but Sherlock moved quietly enough to avoid catching their attention. His head echoed with the conversation he’d just had with Mycroft, and now Sherlock was driven to uncover the final missing piece to the case.

The gravestone was modest, plain even. There wasn’t a hint of tragedy engraved onto the slab, and amongst so many other names of children who had died young, Timothy Greenburgh’s final resting place seemed ordinary, even mundane.

Sherlock stared at the fading words, wondering if his gravestone would be so simple, bereft of sentiment. He was about to leave when he heard John’s approaching footsteps.

“It took me nearly an hour to find you,” John scolded without heat. “I had no idea where you went.”

He looked down at the grey, simple and worn headstone which read:

  
_Timothy Christian Greenburgh_   
_Died November 9, 1878_   
_He was 11_   


John blew out a sharp, frustrated breath as he studied the surrounding graves. “The bastard didn’t even bury his son at the family plot.” 

Sherlock gave a humourless laugh. “No, that honour went to Peter Greenburgh who is buried at Temple Lake alongside his first wife and father. It’s interesting to note he was the last to be buried there.” 

“Now that is very fitting,” John said. “I wonder what happened to the daughter, Edith. If she was happy or at least happier than she was at Temple Lake.”

Sherlock glanced at John. “Mycroft actually called me about that earlier. As usual, he had an ulterior motive for sending us here.”

John snorted. “Somehow that doesn’t surprise me.”

“Edith married a Frenchman named Henri Lambert, a textile industrialist from Lodève who was ambitious and intelligent enough to implement the newest innovations as soon as they became available. The couple had three sons and a daughter named Camille.” 

“The sons, they fought the Great War, didn’t they?”

“Unfortunately, yes. By 1916 all three were killed; their bones scattered over fields and sea. The daughter, Camille, married an eccentric French painter quite late in her years. It caused something of a minor scandal at the time. The husband’s name was Frederic Vernet. Their granddaughter, Berenice, met an English mathematician during a visit to London. His name was Sieger Holmes: my father.”

“Sherlock?” John’s voice echoed with wonder and shock. 

“Over a century apart, John, and yet Timothy and I are alike in so many ways. He an outcast because of his physical deformities, while I … well, I don’t think you need an explanation." 

“No, no, I don’t,” John said. “But if I hear Anderson call you a freak again, I will swing at him; ASBO be damned.” 

Sherlock smiled and said, “I’ll have to call Mycroft, tell him to get ready to discreetly handle the situation." 

“They caught Hunter. He confessed to everything right then and there. The idiot panicked when he realized we weren’t buying into the ghost theory and wanted to scare the kids into shutting up. Gregory tells me he believes Michael is telling the truth. 

"So, nothing nefarious, just a case of fucking stupidity and misplaced loyalty.” 

Sherlock reached down and caressed the top of the gravestone. He whispered quietly and in French so John wouldn’t understand. 

“Let’s go back to London where the criminal class are more predictable and less phantasmal,” Sherlock said. 

“Guns and knives, I like the sound of that,” John declared.

“I apologize for not being able to drive the car,” Sherlock said. “If you want, we could hire one when we’re in London.”

John shook his head. “No thank you. I think our trip here has cured me of my hopeless love of Aston Martins.”

Sherlock gave an inelegant snort. “Until we have a chance to drive yet another classic Aston Martin.”

“I thought you hated to state the obvious.”

Sherlock didn’t bother to stop the laughter that bubbled out of him. It didn’t matter that he was standing in front of a grave and one that veiled such tragic history.

“You know what? Today is Halloween,” John said, enjoying the rare display of Sherlock’s sunnier disposition.

“What do you want to do?”

“Let’s go back to Temple Lake, and see if Dr. Osbourne will lend you her violin. If she does, you can perform some of those lovely pieces you played when I first moved into Baker Street. So, if there is any chance that Timothy’s ghost is still there, at least he’ll know.”

“Know what?”

“That things have changed, and that someone in his family knows the truth about what happened to him.”

“That sounds like a splendid idea, especially since it’ll make Mycroft’s driver wait for us.

“That sounds just about perfect,” John agreed easily. “Serves him right for sending us down here without all the available information.”

“John, the day that Mycroft does give you all the available information: run.”

Now it was the bright sound of John’s laughter that peeled through the genteel and gated cemetery.

 **The End**

**Author's Note:**

> I adore _Silver Blaze_ to bits and personally think it is one of ACD's best SH stories. So, of course, I shoehorned as much of it as possible into this story. 
> 
> The tidbits where Sherlock appreciates John in all his facets are, of course, my head canon only!
> 
> The part of the hidden lumber room was inspired by _The Changeling_. One of the best haunted house films ever. It really is a must-see, especially for Halloween!


End file.
